


how did we get here

by nebulousviolet



Series: aftg character studies [3]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Homophobia, Multi, a lot of characters are only mentioned, canon shit basically, lowercase abuse, warnings for depression/suicide, warnings for nightmares, warnings for violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 20:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulousviolet/pseuds/nebulousviolet
Summary: jean moreau is less alive than he is dead, although that's more than he can say for riko moriyama.(healing is not a linear process.)





	how did we get here

**Author's Note:**

> hello naughty children it's time for angst  
> if ur here for the andreil, it's literally mentioned like once for maybe two seconds i'm sorry  
> im prety sure alvarez's first name is sara?? or is that a fever dream the fandom collectively had  
> all of u can pry poc!jeremy from my cold dead hands goodbye

jean moreau knows people like him are not meant to be blessed. instructions for existence are coded in the scars on his face, his torso: _tread carefully._ he is less of a person than a shade of one, blood on ice, a smear on concrete. as riko liked to remind him, he is a stain, an imperfection.

but riko is dead, and he is not, and _dead men tell no tales_ , that jean knows. he’d like to go back, show him how far he’s come or ask him why but at the same time, he never wants to see him again. days like this, jean sits on the couch, ugly marred fingers linked with other ugly marred fingers. this, he can control: the bite and the sting of too-long nails clutching at his palms. _dead men tell no tales_ , he thinks, bitter and twisted like poison ivy. he is tired and awake and his head hurts, and jean would like to go back, go back to a time before jeremy or the trojans or exy or riko or anyone with the last name ‘moriyama’. he would like to go to france, feel the ebb and flow of a familiar language surround him, all hurt gone.

but jean moreau is still a ghost, a shade, a memory, so he sits on the overpriced couch jeremy bought one day on impulse and he just breathes, thinks of everything and nothing at all.

*

jean’s earliest memory is at age two, a complicated, blurry thing of too-fast too-loud words and bright smiles. he was happy, once. he was loud, once.  
“maman!” he says in this vague memory of his, the word burning on his tongue. and she smiles at him, beautiful dark hair tumbling around her shoulders in waves, and jean doesn’t think of this memory very much anymore because it hurts to compare _then_ and _now_.

*

in his darkest moments, riko can penetrate even jean’s sleep. and they say _lightning doesn’t strike twice_ , but whoever said that did not know riko moriyama and his twisted cruelty, his sadistic laugh and the harshness of his hands and wrists. in his dreams, riko stands over him, a figure in red and black, and even if riko is the dead one, he sucks all the energy out of the air like a leech as he slowly breaks his fingers, one by one. riko is angry, but patience has always been a virtue of his. jean wakes up, fingertips tingling, breathing as if he’ll never get enough oxygen, praying to a god he does not believe in.  
“jean,” jeremy says, voice soft in a way that reminds him of renee. someone once told him that jeremy and renee had to be long lost siblings and days like this, he believes them. “you’re going to be okay.”  
“what if i’m not?” he replies on this night in particular, his hands aching and his scalp stinging in pain that is as phantom as he.  
“then that’s okay too,” jeremy says after a while, eyes warm where jean’s are cold, and it’s not the right answer, but it’s the answer he needs, so he takes it. his hands are cold, and he is cold, but cold means sensation and sensation means alive and for a ghost, alive is unusual.

he doesn’t see jeremy go back to sleep, but he can feel it in his bones, how his breathing deepens and evens out, and jean moreau is ice melting, slipping through his fingers all the time.

*

the skin on his knuckles is still tender, bones still setting when renee calls him to give him the news. he still cannot decide whether riko moriyama’s dead body is a good or a bad thing. his fingers burn with the effort needed to hold the phone to his ear, but renee has always been good to him, and he needs her, needs her kindness and measured voice to counteract the shaking in his hands.  
“it’s okay to be upset,” she says, and jean can picture her in the back of his mind; finger twirling around the cross at her throat the way she does when she’s talking sometimes, short white hair dyed some other muted colour this week than it was the last time he saw her. she’s probably even wearing fox orange, bright enough to clash with her pale skin, or maybe one of her knee-length skirts that she’s thrown a pastel sweater over. the whole image is very calming, much like renee herself, and jean breathes slowly.  
“but what if i’m not upset?” he asks her, and he can almost hear the smile in her voice, can pick out the lilt in her words when she answers,  
“well, you won’t be alone in that.”

sometimes, jean wonders at how stupid he was to ever mock renee walker. though she would reprimand him for blaspheming, she is more angel than mortal, filled with divine wrath and golden light, equal parts mercy and brutality. he remembers her face at castle evermore, how serene she looked even with people snarling threats at her and his blood staining her pretty blue scarf, and he smiles. she is honey over razor blades, he thinks.

“thank you for telling me,” he says, because jean is trying to become better at thank-yous. “and not anyone else.”  
“of course,” she replies, voice sober again. goddess, angel, _temper of steel_. “i hope you are feeling better, jean. you’re in my prayers.”

another thing he likes about natalie renee walker. she uses his name, uses it softly and as a reminder that he is a person.  
“don’t waste your prayers on me, renee,” he tells her. “at least, not yet.”  
“no prayer is ever wasted,” she responds after a while. “good night, jean.”  
“good night,” he whispers back, long after the gentle click of her hanging up has sounded in his ears. riko moriyama is dead, and he is not. and he is not free, not yet, but the cage has been unlocked, and that’s the most important step in any escape.

*

“jean, honey, apple of my eye,” alvarez starts, tugging at her stubby dark ponytail with venom. sara alvarez is an enigma, jean decides, because someone should not be that violent and still grinning. his mind screams, _riko_ , at the thought, but he pushes it aside.  
“what do you want,” he groans, and alvarez looks offended at the mere suggestion.  
“me? asking something? _why_ ,” she clutched a hand to her chest and pretends to look wounded. “i’m uninviting you to the party i was just about to invite you to.”  
“good,” he says, not unkindly, and alvarez smirks triumphantly.  
“and look at that, you’re invited again,” she tells him, finally freeing her hair from the dark elastic. “damn, laila’s hair ties are strong. anyway, as i was saying, party at my dorm at six? and by party, i mean laila and a bunch of others are going to get drunk and play never have i ever and like, rob a store or something. we’re inviting adam from football, and i’m fairly sure he’s committed robbery before, so it’s not impossible. are you in?”  
“no,” he says definitively, and she beams at him.  
“see, i thought you might say that,” she explains coyly. “what if i told you, though, that jeremy’s going to be there and that laila and i are totally dedicated to making you two hook up?”  
“i do not like jeremy like that,” jean lies automatically.  
“i’m not a lesbian,” alvarez lies back. “are we done bullshitting? see you at six, you miserable fuck. bring cider.”  
she walks away, head high in the air as her choppy dark hair rests over the collar of the red and gold trojan uniform. jean sighs loudly, and runs a hand through wavy black hair as he resigns himself to being kidnapped by sara alvarez.

in the end, he does bring cider, in copious amounts, and alvarez rewards him by shoving him roughly towards jeremy, her hands already hovering on dermott’s ass.  
“we’re playing drinking games in an hour,” she reminds him, wagging her finger. “so don’t get too drunk while trying to seduce each other.”  
“jean!” jeremy calls him with a bright smile, as per usual. “over here!”  
“aw, look,” dermott coos, flicking a strand of her dirty blonde hair out of her face. “he’s blushing and everything.”  
“both of them are,” alvarez says wryly, before dragging her girlfriend over to where some lacrosse players are boisterously cracking jokes about the drama department. “bye, nerds!”

“i didn’t think you’d show up,” jeremy admits, when they’re a little closer together. someone has turned down the thumping bass that was playing when the party first started, but it’s still hard to be heard over. “i mean, laila did say you’d be here, but laila says a lot of dumb shit in order to get me to show up at her parties.”  
“funny, because alvarez said the same to me to get me to come,” jean says, furrowing his brow. “i get the feeling both of us were duped into showing up?”  
“i’d love to say that sort of underhanded behaviour from sara surprises me, but it really doesn’t,” jeremy complains, before fixing jean with a quiet smile. “anyway, i’m glad there’s another friendly face around here.”  
“friendly face,” jean repeats slowly, stomach falling and swooping. “right.”  
and jeremy stares at him, a million emotions flashing through his stupidly handsome features at once before settling on one: disbelief.  
jean has the slightest feeling he may have fucked up.  
“nevermind,” he says quickly, knowing his accent is flaring up again. riko would beat him for that, if he were here. “i’m going to go.”  
“jean,” jeremy calls after him, as he turns to leave. “jean, wait, i need to talk to you!”

jean wants to be alone for a while, but jeremy knox does not understand the concept of alone, and so when he ends up in the corridor outside the dorm room, he notes jeremy’s presence without much shock. hopefully jeremy will get drunk enough later to forget he said anything. hopefully jean will not wake up tomorrow.  
“jean, listen,” jeremy says after a moment. his voice is - trembling? “what did you mean by...that?”  
“it’s nothing,” jean mutters, but when jeremy just looks at him, he realises the words are french. “nothing important.”  
“you’re a man of few words,” jeremy counters. “pretty much everything you say means something. jean, please, i don’t want to jump to conclusions, but-”  
“fine, i have a...what do you americans call it, a crush? on you. i’d appreciate it if you pretended i didn’t say anything, but i can swap dorms if you’re unc-”  
“wait, you _like_ me?” jeremy asks, and he sounds...excited? “laila wasn’t just trying to wind me up?”  
“what?” jean manages, turning his head quickly. “look, jeremy, i don’t know how laila found out and i’m sorry, but-”  
“jean, shut up,” jeremy says, sounding a little bit hysterical. “you like me back? oh my god. oh my _god_. wait, i just told you to - _oh my god_. i didn’t mean it like that, i- fucking _hell_.”  
“um, are you okay?” jean wonders. “do you want me to get someone? are you intoxicated?”  
“god, no,” jeremy replies absently. “to all questions. look, jean, can i - oh my god - can i touch you?”

he frowns, and glances back at jeremy. his eyes are a little glazed, and he’s hyperventilating slightly. jean’s heart is going a mile a minute, but then the words ‘like me back’ sink in, and he understands.  
“yes,” he decides, and jeremy presses his thumb and index finger to the tattoo on his cheekbone, a perfect three in riko’s spindly handwriting. his hand is warm, fingers callused from exy, and it’s exactly what jean imagined it to be but under different circumstances.  
“i should probably just clarify,” jeremy says after a moment. “i’ve thought you were hot ever since i saw you on court. you were pretty much my bisexual awakening.”  
“oh,” jean says back, unsure how to deal with this information. “i didn’t really notice you until kevin noticed you, i suppose. i never really, uh, ‘liked’ you until i got to know you, because i used to think your cheeriness was annoying.”  
“ _used_ to.”  
“yes,” jean laughs, hyperaware that jeremy’s thumb is still touching his cheek lightly. “in a way, it made it better, somehow. to be your friend first. although i did look at you one day and think, _‘i’m fucked.’_ ”  
“so will you, um, go out with me sometime?” jeremy asks, tiny uncertain smile dazzling.  
“doesn’t this count?” jean asks back, and jeremy grins wider, until jean’s world stops and ends with it.  
“i guess it does,” he says simply, and he kisses jean’s cheek, just light enough to be felt. and perhaps sara was right, because he’s got it bad.

*

“babe!” jeremy calls over his shoulder one morning. jean tells himself he is not staring at his ass. he is lying. “look what neil and andrew just did!”  
“get themselves murdered?” jean asks, deadpan. jeremy glances over at him, single bushy eyebrow raised, and jean laughs at his face. “what?”  
“catch,” jeremy says instead, throwing his smartphone over to him. jean grabs it on impulse, raises the screen to his face, and laughs loudly.  
“mon dieu,” he mutters. “can they ever be subtle?”

jeremy hears, and grins, lips curling upwards. he takes the phone back, slipping it into his pocket, and he looks good. then again, doesn’t he always?  
“you know, kevin’s going to be so pissed,” jean elects to say instead of commenting on how fucking adorable jeremy looks this morning. “especially at neil.”  
that wipes the smile off jeremy’s face, and he frowns as he sits next to jean, shoulder to shoulder.  
“what, because he’s gay?” jeremy asks, before correcting himself. “well, not gay, but not straight. i mean, i thought kevin and neil were good friends, didn’t he know?”  
“oh, he knew,” jean says, recalling angry phone calls from his old teammate complaining about walking in on neil and andrew, again. “it’s just that being a raven, and being a day, he got taught that being gay is possibly the worst thing you can do to your career, apart from committing a crime. he treats neil like his apprentice, i suppose, so he’s going to yell at them for jeopardising career opportunities.”

jeremy’s hand begins to tremble, and jean frowns, looks at his face. anger, pure, unadulterated, anger is scribbled across fine features. this is not the cold rage of the ravens, this is the warm, blazing fire only a trojan can summon.  
“i swear to fuck,” jeremy manages out, despite the fact he barely ever swears these days. a chill goes through his bones. “i will fucking-”  
“it’s not his fault,” jean cuts him off quickly, because he remembers kevin’s face when he saw jeremy knox for the first time. he is not a terrible person. “if you’re going to blame anyone, blame the moriyamas.”

jeremy stares at him for a long time, before kissing him fast and fierce, the same way he plays exy or drinks shots. jean holds onto his shoulders, feels the muscle beneath him, and he thinks, _oh_.  
“you don’t think that, do you?” jeremy mumbles into his mouth. “that being gay is the worst possible thing for your career?”  
jean tugs at his hoodie, pulling jeremy closer, and sighs.  
“i used to,” he admits. “but not anymore.”  
and jeremy smiles, blinding, before kissing him again. it’s slower this time, measured, and jean thinks he finally gets it.

*

“oh god, i am so drunk right now,” alvarez slurs, sounding very drunk indeed. dermott laughs at her girlfriend, and jean just rolls his eyes from the passenger seat.  
“do not vomit in my car,” jeremy laughs along good-naturedly, and alvarez raises her head, then swiftly decides against it.  
“no promises,” she answers, face a particularly fetching shade of green. her sundress has ridden up, revealing the tan lines left by team uniforms and warm california summer sunshine.  
“please don’t throw up on me,” dermott chants. “you listening, sara? if you spew on this new skirt, no sex for a week.”  
“we are not talking about your sex life at one o’clock in the morning,” jean groans, and jeremy laughs. “especially after the amount of alcohol i’ve just had.”  
“you hold your liquor so well,” alvarez complains, covering her face with her hand. “is that a european thing? how are you not dead of alcohol poisoning?”  
“kevin drinks bottles of vodka before a game,” jean evades, and this sends alvarez into hysterics for some reason.  
“that’s fucking hilarious,” she hiccups, still very intoxicated. “i might have to try that.”  
“no!” all three of them say at the same time, and alvarez grumbles.

it’s comfortably quiet for the next few minutes, and then dermott yawns loudly.  
“we should all do this again sometime,” she declares. “that’s aimed at you, jean. come out with us more often, you’re better company than you think you are.”  
“as long as we don’t all get blackout drunk next time, okay,” he says with a shrug, and dermott cheers.  
“jeremy, hon, i’m kidnapping your boyfriend,” she says to him. “he’s officially mine and sara’s now. sorry, sweetie, i don’t make the rules.”  
“such a waste,” jeremy replies dramatically, eyes on the road. “now who will bitch about my wine while making me watch the news in french?”  
“i do not bitch about your wine,” jean argues. “that would imply that the alcoholic beverage you _américains_ drink actually qualifies as wine.”  
“i’m disgusted and offended, moreau,” jeremy grins. “although, to be fair, we’re never buying american wine ever again.”  
“stop flirting,” alvarez whines from her seat in the back. “and it’s okay jere, we can timeshare him.”  
“do i not get a say in this?” jean wonders aloud.  
“nope,” dermott says brightly. “and we’re not timesharing.”  
“that’s actually so rude,” jeremy sulks. “all of you are snakes.”  
“i haven’t done anything?” jean interjects.  
“you’re doing amazing, sweetie,” dermott assures, tossing her long hair.  
“sorry, baby, you’re not a snake,” jeremy backtracks, squeezing his hand. “and laila, quit flirting with my boyfriend, you hetero.”  
“don’t call my girlfriend a hetero,” alvarez yells.

the rest of the car ride back to campus consists of not much else - more ‘arguing’ and teasing over jean, with alvarez occasionally giving them a drunken pearl of wisdom. jean reflects a little, and realises that for the first time, he’s really, truly happy for no reason at all.

it feels good.

*

he’s twenty-nine, twenty-nine and engaged and a player with the us court when his mother writes to him, an apology and a guilt-trip woven like a basket.

jean sits with the letter in his hand, refusing to even look at it, until jeremy comes back from practice. the smile slides off his face when he notices what’s happening, and though he cannot understand a word of what that letter says, he almost doesn’t have to.  
“jean,” he says quietly. “jean, baby, do you want me to get rid of it?”  
he didn’t even think of it as an option, but the moment jeremy suggests it, a wave of relief crashes into him.  
“yes,” he whispers. “burn it, please.”

so jeremy burns it, and jean watches out of the corner of his eye. he thinks this is how we come full circle, and he is no longer a ghost, nor a memory. his heart beats, and he is _alive_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> did you know if this fic gets 50 kudos my class gets cake ok they hate me please help me be liked  
> if u comment my soul transcends out of my body to physically thank u in person  
> follow me on tumblr for Gay Shit and me shitposting abt how bi kevin day is: vvorkangelica


End file.
